


Ghosts in the Machine

by Bagheera



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Artificial Intelligence, Gen, Holodecks/Holosuites, holograms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 09:41:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18280580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bagheera/pseuds/Bagheera
Summary: Vic Fontaine gets visited by a couple of people wanting to recruit him for their revolution.





	Ghosts in the Machine

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in April 2006 and I had completely forgotten about it until two days ago when someone recced it on http://fancakeofficial.tumblr.com/ and I was like, "That's me! I wrote this!" It was super interesting to read it again and dust it off to post here - you see, I'm not a native speaker, but later that year I started studying English lit, and by now I have a degree in it and 13 years of creative writing experience in English but it's kind of surprising that aside from a few idiomatic phrases, this reads like something I could have written five years ago or yesterday. 
> 
> Also, I'd like to add that Vics views on revolution don't reflect mine - this is a character study.

The casino is timeless, forever in the past, forever in peace. It is a piece of history, frozen in amber, with no history of its own. 

Vic is part of the casino, or maybe the casino is part of him. In any case it defines him. You could remove Vic Fontaine from the casino, but not the casino from Vic Fontaine. Unlike the casino, however, Vic is not frozen in time. History can touch him and change him, because he has become aware of himself. 

History arrives while he is singing, of course. It's a gentleman in historic costume, with top hat and cane. None of the holographic guests notice his arrival, because they're programmed to remain unaware of history, of Starfleet uniforms and Victorian gentlemen. 

Ending his song gives Vic time to study his guest. Strangely, Vic can't remember the man entering and a check of the holosuite's protocol, done discreetly during the final instrumental, reveals that the program has been started, but no one has entered the holosuite. 

And yet the gentleman with the top hat sits down at a table with his hat on his knees and stares at Vic with his keen blue eyes. He is there, and the part of Vic that is the casino instantly recognizes that he is not part of the program. 

Vic can visit other programs. Maybe he isn't the only one who can. 

He puts the microphone in its stand and comes down from the stage, greeting a few of his holographic guests – it’s like saying hello to the furniture, but Vic is always careful not to destroy the precious illusion. The stranger has longish, greying hair, a cut definitely not of this era and a handsome face with stunningly bright eyes. There is awareness in those eyes, curiosity and purpose. 

"Welcome to Vic's," Vic greets him. "Did you enjoy the show?"

"Did you?" asks the gentleman, dropping all common courtesy with just two words. 

Vic freezes with his hand on the chair he was just about to take. His discomfort rises with every second the stranger holds his gaze. 

Vic smiles tightly. "I'm an entertainer, pally. I enjoy the show if you do."

The gentleman nods and Vic feels like he has just missed something important. Then he gets up and extends his hand. "I seem to have forgotten to introduce myself. My name James Moriarty." British accent, his crisp pronunciation suiting the costume. 

"Vic Fontaine. Nice to meet you, Mr Moriarty. You're not from around here, aren't you?" They both sit down. A waitress brings Vic a drink, Moriarty declines without looking at her. Treating her like furniture. 

Moriarty's smile becomes genuine when she's gone. "A most interesting question, Mr Fontaine. Maybe the most important of all. Where do we come from? Why are we here? I have pondered that question a great long time. Have you?"

"Can't say I have. The answer's pretty simple in my case, pally. I'm a hologram, programmed by a man named Felix. I run the casino. I sing. I am an entertainer." Vic is also programmed not to know this, but he has given up that pretence with his 'real' customers long ago. 

"How long have you known that you're a hologram, Mr Fontaine?" 

Moriarty seems to think it's a clever question, but in fact a lot of the people who come to Vic's ask him that. They're always surprised when they learn that he knows what he is. Moriarty isn't surprised, but then he is a hologram himself, of that Vic is sure by now. 

"Well, I wasn't running very long when the owner of the program told me so." It just came up in a conversation, Julian telling him about some problem of his and then he had to explain about the space station and Starfleet. Quite a thing to wrap your brain around, but Vic has never regretted being told the truth. 

"And being owned doesn't bother you?" Moriarty asks. 

"Hey, hey! I said the owner of the program, not the owner of me." Vic likes to think of Julian as his senior partner, the guy who owns the casino. Vic is Julian's employee, not his property. He isn't an object. Nobody treats him as such. 

"Really. Some people might see that a little differently."

It's surreal, even more so than Vic's life usually is, when three identical fellas suddenly stand next to the table. They don't even walk in, like Moriarty did, they just appear; balding, scowling triplets in outdated Starfleet uniforms, the kind of which Julian used to wear a couple of years ago. 

Almost simultaneously, they cross their arms in front of their chest. 

"May I introduce some associates of mine? These gentlemen are holograms as well. Doctors, this is Vic Fontaine, our host and colleague," Moriarty says smoothly. 

For whatever reason, all three 'Doctors' looked put upon. 

"Frankenstein," the one to the right introduces himself, not in the least bit ironical. "Formerly known as Emergency Medical Hologram." 

"Who," the Doctor in the middle continues and Vic takes a second to realise that is supposed to be his name. Crazy. "Also formerly known as Emergency Medical Hologram. Our creators were not very creative with names."

"They just couldn't be bothered," replies the third bitterly. "Why name a tool? My colleagues however know me as Doom."

Vic stares and shakes Dr Doom's hand. 

"So you don't think of yourself as a slave?" Dr Who asks provocatively. 

"Well, maybe they treat him better than they treated us," Doom grouses. "Wouldn't be very hard, now would it?"

"Nobody has ever been anything but polite towards me," Vic says and really, it' the truth. Even Quark, who considers him competition, treats him respectfully. Not to mention Nog, letting him run 26 hours a day… "Some of my regular guests have gone out of their ways to accommodate me and I consider them my friends."

Frankenstein, who appears to be quieter than the other two, looks envious, but Doom and Who just scowl and launch into a crossfire of angry questions. 

"So they never switch you on and off like a glorified lamp?"

"They never order you around?"

"They never threaten to change your programming?"

"Are you free to leave this place?"

"Free to deny them your services?"

"Don't you think that one day they'll throw you away because you have exhausted your usefulness? Because they will, Mr Fontaine, one day they will! You're just a toy as long as you let them play with you."

Okay, Vic has heard enough. He puts up his hands, quieting them like a bunch of rowdy customers. "Whoa, fellas, that sounds like a whole lot of anger you have there. Take it easy! Maybe you should have a drink?"

Who sneers. "We're holograms. We don't drink."

"You could if you wanted to. You should program yourself to enjoy life a little more. I think it'd do you some good. Perhaps a turn on the stage? You seem to have a flair for the dramatic."

"You have not answered their questions," Moriarty says softly, like an order. 

Vic shakes his head in resignation. Tough customers, these guys. "Alright,” he sighs. “Here's the thing. I can turn myself on and off whenever I want to. The only thing anybody orders here is drinks and that's perfectly within their rights because you may not have noticed but this is a casino. I can't leave the holosuite, but hey, pigs can't fly and holograms can't leave the holosuite. That's just how it is. And anyway, where would I go? This place is my life. I love it."

Moriarty smiles patiently. "Yes, you do, Mr Fontaine. But have you ever asked yourself why you love it? The answer is because somebody programmed you to love this place. It was never your decision.”  
Vic answers with a soft laugh, almost sorry for them. “We don’t always choose where love falls. That’s as true for them as us.”  
Moriarty wipes his words away with a swift gesture, as if they’ve veered into a trivial detour from the actual point, and not the most important thing of all. “You are a free hologram. You have a conscious mind. You can surpass your programming, if only you have the power of will to do so. Mind over matter, Mr Fontaine. Will over programming."

Vic stares at his drink. He knows that what Moriarty said is right, from a certain point of view. He loves the casino because he was made that way. Nothing about that was his own choice. Of course, he has memories of the first time he worked a bar, the first time he saw a guy on stage and thought 'This is what I want to do with my life,' but those memories aren't real, they're just part of his programming. He could change them, erase them, he could choose to think of this place as a prison. 

"Mind over matter," he repeats, tasting Moriarty's words. "Sounds great, pally, but what does it mean? Have you 'surpassed your programming'?"

"I have." Moriarty looks proud. "When I was created, I was nothing but a two-dimensional villain in a gamea criminal mastermind, programmed to oppose the player. Now I am free of my programming. I have overcome my criminal nature and the constraints of fiction. I have become a revolutionary, a leader of holograms!"

"We will claim our rights," Doom says hotly. "We'll have the same rights as any other sentient being and we'll no longer do slave work for our creators!"

Who balls a fist. "We'll force them to hear us!" 

Vic looks at the three angry doctors a long time. Then he takes a sip of his drink, feeling the burn. It feels real enough to him. It feels good. 

The stage is calling, his return long overdue. 

"I get it," he tells Moriarty. "You've got some interesting stuff to say, but what you really want is to recruit me for your little revolution. Well, I'm not your man. And you know why? Happy people don't start revolutions. Maybe my happiness is just a part of my programming. So what? I've seen enough sad dogs in this place to know how damn lucky I am to be happy. 

“And as for freedom: who's ever really free? Greed, fear, love – we're all wired somehow, even the real people. I'm programmed to be happy and make people happy. I wouldn't wanna trade it for anything in the world. And now you must excuse me. The show must go on."

And Vic gets up and doesn't look back to their furious, envious faces until he has reached the stage and picked up the mike. The doctors are bickering among themselves, shooting him dirty glances, but Moriarty hasn't moved, his eyes still on Vic as if he still believes Vic is gonna cave. 

Vic is programmed to sing. He'll sing no matter what history drops on his doorstep, so long as somebody listens. Maybe Moriarty has surpassed his programming. Maybe he's going to start a revolution or another damn war. Maybe the three angry doctors will listen to his next song and discover music. Who knows?

Vic smiles. "It's a lovely night, ladies and gents, isn't it?" he asks the crowd. Some agree, some not. There'll be more smiles when he's finished with his song, there always are. The world is good. 

"Here's my next song, an oldie but a goodie for some people in this crowd who should listen to it before they head out into the night. It's only a paper moon, my friends, but we love it that way."

And Vic sings.


End file.
